Britain’s Storage Room Cleaning
by R. S. Swasso
Summary: “By ‘cleaning’I meant to go tidy up the attic as an excuse to undust old remembrances lying hidden in the junk I’ve refused to throw away.” - a clean bromantic short fic :)


If you're looking for a heartwarming account of my emotional and poetic conversion, you've come to the wrong place. The monotonous rainfall that washed my little part of the world this morning set the mood better for habitual ventures rather than heroics and butterflies. A day, hardly what you could call climactic, but not entirely uneventful. Sometimes an unruffled stroll down Memory Lane is just what a fellow needs, am I right?

However the day was destined to play out, an extraordinary twenty-four hours was the least I expected as I blew steam off my tea cup and snuggled deeper into my armchair. I woke at an ungodly hour for no reason this morning. So naturally I had to make myself an early morning cuppa. Extra caffeinated, the only remedy for lack of sleep. Outside my drawing room window, not even the palest light could yet be seen within the warm cloud settled low to the earth. Besides the sporadic flashes of the occasional lightning bolt, the sky was still in a deep black slumber.

From here I watched a couple rose leaves outside the window at my elbow bobbing under the weight of water beads dropping from the eaves. I sat sipping my tea when the mist was just freckling the stone pathway. I stayed there, a few cups later, until the stepping stones and gravel were all soggy gray with the accumulated specks. The pattering of the rain stimulated the eardrums but was still droning enough to entertain my drowsiness.

I know, I know. You didn't come here to read poetry about the rain. In short, these three ceiling-high windows framed the perfect picture of the landscape. It's my house's ideal view of a shower. And clearly I didn't have any better way to waste the hours left before my meeting with America at noon.

Actually, I lied when I said I woke up for no reason. Really, I never slept. I spent the night tossing and turning uneasily due to the lonely wonderings consuming my mind…again. Yes, I knew it would be a passing fancy just like it always is. Of course my brothers were only trying to get in my head by telling me I was the black sheep of Europe. But just like every time before, knowing those things wouldn't make the feeling ebb any faster. And being mesmerized by the rain warded off my conscience for only so long. Before the grandfather clock in the kitchen struck seven, I had already given in to the urge to go "clean" my storage room again.

By "cleaning" I meant to go tidy up the attic as an excuse to undust old remembrances lying hidden in the junk I've refused to throw away. Why am I wont to do this when I'm already feeling down? Beats me. Maybe because history books allude that I, Great Britain, have always been a cocky glutton for punishment. Specifically that I'm fittingly destined for a life of seclusion. There's never been much of an argument otherwise. But today was one of those days I pondered the futile hope that there is an argument in my defense buried somewhere in the past.

Somewhere along the line I found myself musing the fact that, of all my old colonies that deserted me, America was undoubtedly my closest. Yet it seemed he was the falling pebble that inspired the avalanche of the rest to deplete my empire. I told myself this morning that if I could recall what I did that chased even him off, maybe I'd understand why I still have no lasting friends today. In spite of the unlikelihood of results, I'd be lying if I said I walked into the storage room without hope.

Shoving a hand into my plaid distressed jeans pocket, I withdrew a ring of keys. Eventually I picked out the right one and fit it into the lock of the dullest door in the hall. I glanced over my shoulder as if afraid someone would catch me in the middle of something private. Yeah, it was a stupid fear. Besides myself, the two servants are the only ones around; and it was too early even for them to be up. Besides, they could care less if I keep the room locked as long as they see a paycheck every week.

As the hinges moved they sounded a meticulous screech making my teeth shiver. Teacup still in hand, I stepped in noiselessly and closed the door behind me. It was pitch black but I habitually reached and grasped a chain hanging from the ceiling and gave it a tug, which set a short row of dusty ceiling bulbs springing to life one after another before me. Yellow glowed over the windowless attic with low ceilings coming to a peak in the center. This open room was miniscule under the impression of tightly packed rows of boxes, tubs, and bookcases. Every possible inch of the room had been filled and orderly sectioned. Can you tell I come here often?

I set my tea down on a stack of books that reached up to my waist, eyes searching for something not already ruthlessly organized. Even rolls of spare wallpaper, rusty bars of fencing, and other cumbersome items have been carefully propped against the water-stained drywall. I began strolling through the rows, much like a buyer browses the aisles of a supermarket. As I passed each wicker basket full of mesh and every brass candlestick topping a particular heap, already the images started blooming in my mind's eye. Faces of ragdolls in dishcloth dresses unburied my toy-making in an ancient rural London. Brass tubas having lost all burnish from years of neglect evoked visions of my earliest empire. I have mounted and proficiently filled hat racks and hangers on the low rafters. It's strange, the stories of use that latch onto even the smallest items. I could have spent the day dawdling on this first shelf.

On a hook above my head I spotted my faded red coat with gold beading and frills at the cuffs; still tied around the collar was a dingy liquor-stained cravat. These both hung underneath a wide-brimmed captain's hat with two bravura feathers stuffed under its belt. I took it and blew a puff of dust from the craggy leather, soft to the touch from weather-wear and long-gone days of pirating.

"Ah," I sighed and fondly hung it up again, "The days when a man could be free at sea… How I envy you today, Former Me."

At my feet were two old weapons. One of them, my rapier still glistening in the dim light. The other, a lad's handmade wooden pirate's dagger. I gave it a swing or two and found it much lighter than I remembered. This was where the new wind in my sails took me. When he was just a boy, America would run me down, flailing this thing at me. He always had to play the hero, and I'd always be the thieving pirate. He'd save the imaginary damsel in distress, and I'd gladly act out every possible demise a bloke could suffer. With this toy I'd be sent sprinting out of the house and all around the yard until I'd snatch up a stick to return his favor. There in the New World (back when it was a new world,) we'd have a go, battling to see whose fits of laughter would cripple him first.

Up and down the rows of half-opened boxes I continued. Atop a small dresser against the back wall, I found something of trivial interest. It was a small assortment of hardbacks placed between two Gaelic figures standing in as bookends. These were the fairy-tales and textbooks I used to read to America as a child. The first textbook on display was a mathematics learner, pages stiff and brittle from being passed down my bloodline for centuries. In a particularly lazy mood, America could whine and wail about the lessons as fiercely as polar equals on a magnet reject each other. He was an exceedingly intelligent child when he wanted to be; but, blimey, did his mind wander! Then again, pulling out the fairy tale collective beside the learner, I recalled that I was mostly to blame for his attention deficit. In this big storybook I fed his wild imagination until it was spoiled rotten.

The two books in my hands were mere relics from the past, but holding them helped me contemplate. First of all, I was intent upon bringing him up proper and intellectual like all the rest. In the other hand, there was more than mere affluent potential in the boy. In this hand holding the fantasies, there thrived a totally different outlook on the affiliation. I had a brother. Of course, if it hadn't of been for the prospective wealth he'd bring, there never would have been any other relationship; but that was besides the matter. Here I was now, remembering the days we would sit in the fields together conjuring the most ridiculous inventions. I must have been immersed in the idea of having a little brother who not only appreciated my castles in the sky, but even built his own after me. Either way, those were undoubtedly the times I felt less alone than ever.

That explained the situation then, but wasn't much help to me now. Today America, like the others, gives me a skeptical frown when I talk to my friends that for some reason they insist are imaginary. So I put the books back into their slots between the makeshift bookends and moved on.

I amused myself trying to bring back the hazy memories attached to a few empty bottles of expensive wine France gave me one night at a casino. I chuckled to myself. I don't always enjoy my time with France, but when I do, we're usually both drunk. And I have some wicked ink-work of a hot six string somewhere on my rear to prove it.

At the end of this garbage aisle (I was increasingly wondering why the hell I kept most of it), I came upon a large terracotta pot seeming to be the supporting anchor of some stacked plastic tubs. Standing in the pot were shovels and plows. They weren't mine. These I had gifted only to have them given back. I grabbed an iron handle sticking out but pulled up the handle only, gladly detaching from its rotting wood body. I flung it down where it probably clattered at the bottom of the pot – I couldn't hear anything over the bucketing rain on the shingles. Naturally, I took to pondering a little.

I gave them to America when he was a teen with a simple intention: that he use them to bring more produce. However, it was the time when we fought over every little thing. It wasn't long before he refused to receive work tools from the person he was "unjustly" providing for. Long story short, he didn't think I had a right to his productions. I always knew he lived to rebel, but I never thought he'd take it this far. Perhaps if not for my situation, I would have seen the issue rising. But those days, a few other matters distorted my foresight. The last fragments of my empire were held together by a thread, not to mention I was wading knee-deep in French war debt. Needless to say, I was less than amiable about America's pleas to chat over reforms. After all, I was drowning! Did he actually think, then in my time of need, that I would even consider giving up claims on his profits? And he was barely out of his teens, was I really supposed to take his threats seriously?

These memories presented me with my ever-present controversy on who was to blame for what. Together my desperation and his yearning for freedom was all it took to smother the fragile brotherhood we both thought invincible. I get that, but I don't see what I did that was so inexcusable. His unconditional support was the whole reason I adopted the kid in the first place. It wasn't my fault…

Was I so unlucky I couldn't keep anything good for long? Maybe one more nostalgic puzzle piece would answer whether I'm still fatefully hopeless today.

Of course it wasn't that easy. For the rest of the hour I wandered the evocative attic space. My boredom sought for a happier ending. My better reason knew I'd never find it. My tea was drained and the voices of my servants started waking in the hall before I admitted the futility of sauntering my melancholy stockroom. I shouldn't have hoped in the first place, so the disappointment I felt now was my due reward.

Having had just about enough, I grabbed my empty cup again and turned towards the door. Gazing back once more at the yellow-lit storeroom, I listened to the torrential rain still beating the shingles just as dogged as when I stepped in. Of course, not a thing had actually been cleaned or tidied. It was all precisely the same.

My hand sought for the chain hanging before me. My eyes landed on a particular crate just beside the doorframe, unnoticeable on the way in. It was set apart from the rest and likewise was empty and lidless. "Imported Tea" was faded print on its mildewed and barnacle encased sides. I knew at first glance precisely which Massachusetts harbor it was fished from. Why and when it found its way from the bottom of the ocean to this storage room, I couldn't remember. But I didn't care. I let myself sink into the reminiscence once more because why the hell not.

The night it was sunk, I came about as close as possible to contrition during America's rebellion. Disguised like a native Indian, he and the locals stormed my merchant ship in protest to a tariff. He threw me back and out of the way almost effortlessly. Despite the tables having turned in his favor, he showed me a fleeting outward expression of the deep ache fueling his new-found fortitude. His blue eyes bore into me all blame for what was to come. The colonists dumped this and many more crates of my tea into the Boston harbor. Our years together flashed before my eyes as they died away with the sound of that first splash. Evidently I had until then missed the parts where, almost overnight, he grew up and away from his innocent meekness.

The prospect seemed far-fetched at the time, but I had nurtured him since infancy. For the first time in a while, I remembered my parental instincts nagging me, "How did you let this happen?" I admit, only now in the privacy of my own narration, that night I guess I did feel something akin to regret.

My reminiscence was interrupted by a brief rumbling turning to a crack of thunder, spooking the walls into a quake as suddenly as the booming of a musket. Oh yes. Shortly after that so called "tea-party" I would be even more shocked by the nonstop raging of those very noises.

I bet right about now you're probably thinking to yourself, "Good for you, Britain. Now you know what relationship dangers to look out for and how to avoid repeating history." Yeah… not happening.

Do you think I haven't noticed these exact same factors every prior "cleaning?" Don't you know these are age-old questions for a reason? It's because even then, when I ached for my brother the most, then in my most dire moment… I did nothing contrite. I made no apology. I begged no pardon. Why would I?

"Hm." I laughed at the blonde optimism that drove me here, cynical but far from self-loathing. "You'll never change, Britain, you bloody twat."

I tugged on the chain hanging from the ceiling and locked the door behind me. The storage room would return to blackness in the back of my mind until the next rainy morning.

I told you neither of us should have gotten out hopes up, so don't complain now. Still, if you've read this far, at least give me a final word or two about the significances discussed at America's house a couple hours later. Then I'll leave you to decide whether or not I wasted your time.

Jealousy tickled my ego a bit as I walked up that gravel path to America's handsome white house. The warm noon sun radiated his yard, alive with fresh blossoms, busy bees, and a choir of songbirds all around. The front of the house was a pampered heavenly garden compared to the soggy moor of fog that was my own estate at the moment.

I gave an uneasy nod to Tony who sat on the bench beneath the railed porch. In reply his giant red eyes bore holes into me and I quickened my strides. Reaching the porch that went all around the house, I didn't hear anything after the first ring of the doorbell. I waited then rang again. Still nothing. Tony's wordless glare was starting to freak me out so I rapped loudly on the door with my knuckles. From within I heard a familiar voice frantically shouting.

"Crap, Britain is here! Put that thing away before it's too late!!"

The door swung abruptly open and America stood there looking caught red handed but playing it cool, sipping on a cup of coffee.

"Come in, man, Lithuania just brewed some Jo!"

I left my jacket at the door and Lithuania brought breakfast to the parlor where we sat at a window facing the fields. America characteristically pushed out his chair and sat back until he was almost lying against the wood. Heaving a yawn, he nonchalantly asked how my journey was. Note that neither of us are any good at small talking to each other. I tried not to look famished when my plate was placed before me but it was then that my gut realized I hadn't eaten a bite today. Thankfully I happen to know how to bring up certain conspiracy theories America does enjoy small talking about. It was also a good thing he likes listening to the sound of his own voice; this bought me time to stuff my face, only having to nod occasionally at his one way heated discussion. After he ran out of saliva and I'd had my full, I took up a cup of coffee to get down to business.

"So," I said after he had gulped the last mouthfuls of his now cold coffee. "Why didn't you even tell me what you wanted to meet about?"

"Was I supposed to?" he said casually, "I mean, if I tell you on the phone what I was planning to talk to you about in person then what's the point of you even coming here? You know me, I'm a face-to-face kinda guy."

I scoffed a little. "Not telling a guest the meaning of their visit… Not very professional, if you ask me."

America beamed his massive childish smile, "You're not my mom anymore."

I filled my cheeks with a gulp of coffee to avoid retorting with "Thank God."

I noticed he had been rubbing his eyes a lot at the beginning of our conversation. He kept taking off his three-quarter-rimmed prescriptions to wipe the lenses on his burgundy sweater.

"What's wrong, you going blind already?" I asked.

"Huh? No." he muttered, blowing on the glasses before pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. "I dropped my glasses today while cleaning out my storage earlier. Dang, I think they're cracked."

"Really?" I commented without thinking, "So was I."

He gasped. "You were cracked?!"

"No, Einstein, I was cleaning my storage."

"Oh." He looked much relieved. "What a coincidence."

There was a very long, abnormal pause in the flow of the conversation. I know I shied from the mention of my storage room for obvious sentimental reasons. But I couldn't see why he should feel the same. He's America, after all. Nothing gets to him. There's no way someone as young and carefree as him could be brought down by painful nostalgia like I am. But somehow the elephant in the room felt mutually understood.

The pause lengthened…

"Anyway," He inhaled deeply, "So have you been starving yourself or what? You ate like a pig."

I glanced down at my plate that indeed had been all but licked clean.

"…Or were you just missing my quality cuisine?" He sneered.

"What are you trying to imply about my own cuisine??" I lashed.

"You said it not me."

The thought that he had summoned me across the pond just to mock me set a spark under my seat.

"America, I thought this was going to have something to do with the war in Europe right now! Did you really drag my ass all the way over here so you could poke fun at me 'face to face'?!"

"Nah, man. I was going to let you know I wouldn't mind giving you a hand with some of those artillery expenses."

"America, you little…! Wait… Sorry?"

"I said," America repeated slowly, "I wanted to let you know I'm considering giving you a hand with some of your expenses in this one."

After a brief and less awkward silence I realized my jaw had fallen lax. I sat back coolly, still registering. America let out a booming chuckle.

"But of course," He raised a hand, "If you don't want my help, I won't bother-"

"But why?" was the only silent response I could manage, "Why help me? Don't you have plenty of your own troubles as it is? What about your depression??"

"Well," And at that America's eyes fell to his lap as he scratched his nape thoughtfully. He chewed his inner cheek, reminding me of the times he'd muster a confession as a child. "About that… I don't know how to put it. It's not that I want to join the war. I don't. Really!"

I knew America never doubted himself; but right then he seemed at least confused by his intents.

"…You think helping me out is what you need right now?" I perceived.

His eyes rose again. He deliberately but casually replied, "Yeah. I think it would help us both, you know what I mean?"

I didn't. I never understood the things that made America feel complete. I nodded anyway.

He sat a little taller and said, "I just love being there for others, like…."

"Like playing the hero?" I finished sarcastically.

"Exactly!" his eyes lit up. "I knew you'd understand. Who knows, maybe all I need to kick this crap is a little reminder that I'm still the hero!"

I rolled my eyes. I should have guessed it. A sudden smirk tugged the corner of my mouth with a chuckle as I swallowed another bite of toast. "So, you haven't changed either…"

America raised a brow, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nevermind." I said louder, "Ignore me."

"Hm. Well, anyway," he was puzzled for a moment, but quickly recovered his bantering tone. "You should also know that first and foremost, I really don't have the heart to watch you get annihilated any longer."

I tried to play off a twitch as an aloof smirk. I knew his intentions were about as generous as they get; but I couldn't help wanting to add a few more cracks to those glasses on his face.

"How many times," I seethed, "Do I have to tell you that I can fight my own battles perfectly fine on my own??!"

"Hey!" he threw up his hands, grinning counterfeit innocence. "I mean, if you don't want my help…"

And so we began talking arrangements. America is to remain neutral in this war for now, only going so far as to provide material needs. He is practically on our side now; I'm sure that fact will turn out a major relief to all the Allies, myself included.

And there you have it. I never promised the ending would resolve my conflict. The only worthwhile facts you or I could take from today are two: The first is that I do drink a stereotypical amount of tea when I've nothing to do; and the second, that no country knows lasting friends. Basically I got reminded this morning that the world is a fickle bloke, along with history and his unforgiving acceptance of our choices, refusing to let us regret let alone change our fate. That being said, maybe that means brotherhood is also in a small way immortal. The punk will continue giving me a migraine on good days, and I'll never be content with my remoteness. But today at least, America and his need to feel needed might prove to the world that staying the same could be a blessing in disguise.

 ** _~ THE END ~_**

Thanks so much for reading!


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